


Home

by dabs_into_oblivion



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Not Canon Compliant, Queen Sansa, Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabs_into_oblivion/pseuds/dabs_into_oblivion
Summary: In which Sandor realises revenge isn't worth never seeing her again. In which Sansa learns to smile again.





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> i'm mad. cleganebowl fucked with sandor's entire character development

He tells the Stark bitch to go home. The queen will die anyway, and the kid deserves to live. She calls him Sandor, and it's then that he stops and asks himself why the fuck he's here. She's run away by then, and he still stands, hand on his sword hilt, until he hears irregular footsteps and realizes he'd better make a decision.

For all he knows, Gregor isn't really Gregor anymore; he's a machine, like one of those things he fought north of the Wall and at Winterfell. But this machine is over seven feet tall and solid muscle, and possibly somewhere in that muscle is the recollection of just how much he fucking hates his little brother. Sandor is crazy enough to chance it, but another thought, unbidden, stays him. Sansa's smile, the night of the banquet they gave after they defeated the dead. She's a woman grown now, and he wonders if she might --

It's not about her, really. It's about him. He doesn't want to die at his fucking brother's hand. Seven hells, he doesn't even particularly want to kill his brother. There's more to life than that. He's not a dog anymore.

He finds Arya half-hidden by a pile of rubble and picks her up, shielding her with his body, carrying her, ducking to avoid the dragon's fire, surprisingly nimble. Every once in a while he checks to make sure she's still breathing. He'll never tell her. Thank the gods there's no one else to see.

Their horses are gone, but there's one standing. He dumps her onto it, threads the reins through her fingers and guides her feet into the stirrups and slaps the horse's arse. He can walk until he finds someone to buy a horse from. He thinks about stealing one, but he knows firsthand how little anyone likes having next to nothing. It won't pain him to walk the Kingsroad, no more than it would anyone else, and the Stark girl needs the horse more than he does.

He walks.

Winter is almost gone by the time he drags his weary body through the gates of Winterfell. He glances around, daring anyone to challenge him, before trudging toward the barracks. He needs a bath before he can even think about approaching her. Even when Joffrey had her beaten, she still smelled sweet.

He's just pulled his pants on when he hears a tap at the door. "Come," he says, chuckling at the thought of having a room to himself, thinking it's one of the men. He turns, and it's her.

He flushes beet red. She turns a pretty pink and averts her eyes. He grasps at his shirt, pulling it over his head. "Forgive me, my la--your Grace."

Her smile is real, and she looks him in the face. He wants her to be afraid, to give him a reason to shut himself off from her, but she takes a step closer. Her voice is soft. "When I heard of your return, I needed to make sure of your comfort, ser."

"Fuck comfort," he growls, forgetting that it's her and he needs to be gentle. He kneels, wincing at the sore muscles in his legs. Her eyes follow him. He looks back up at her. "I'm no ser, but I'm good at killing, and --"

"No," she interrupts, bending to place her hands on his shoulders. "You're not to swear yourself to me. No oaths."

He wants to tell her that she's the only person he's ever considered swearing an oath to. He wants to tell her, but the words get stuck in his throat.

"You look terrible." She's smiling a little, and he wonders if she ever really smiles anymore. "We're holding a banquet tonight. My sister's getting married."

He wonders how she feels about this, if there's still part of her that wants to be a lady and marry a lord she loves, just like in the stories.

She's pulling him up. Has he been this close to her, standing, since the cunt that used to be king died? Perhaps never. He likes how tall she is, likes how easy it would be to slide his hand around the back of her neck, bend slightly, bring her face up to his . . .

But of course, she would push him away. He's ugly, and she needs to wed a lord.

"If I'm not to call you ser, what should I call you?" she asks.

He closes his eyes against the compassion, the kindness. "Doesn't matter, does it? I'm just a dog." Even as he says the words, his mind rebels against them.

"My first dog died," she says, and her voice is hard. He remembers that night, on the Kingsroad, her sullenness when questioned and her cries when she discovered that the Lannister bitch and her son wouldn't spare her wolf if it meant losing. "I don't like dogs,  _ser_ , and I need a name to call you if you insist on refusing the title you more than deserve."

He turns away from her. "You know my name, your Grace."

"If I'm to use it, then you're to call me Sansa."

His heart leaps in his chest.

"And I'll see you at the banquet, Sandor."

His heart bursts.

\----------------

The younger Stark sister is uncharacteristically outgoing tonight, her face and hair shining in the low light, and the poor bastard she's marrying won't stop looking at her like she's his entire world. Sandor drinks, and refills his cup, and drinks again, wondering where the fuck the Queen in the North is and why he doesn't grow some balls and make a move.

A cheer goes up, and a tipsy Arya stands and moves through the throng. His eyes follow her, as do everyone else's, and he knows with unfailing accuracy the moment when they see their Queen.

She's in a soft gray, lighter than what she usually wears (used to wear? he doesn't know anymore) and it's lower cut than most Northern gowns, leaving her shoulders mostly bare. Her hair sweeps across them, her crown glinting. He's wanted her before, but now that he sees her in this role, he would do anything to serve her.

She sees him looking and gives him a smile, small but there, private, just theirs. She sweeps in between the tables, regal, and sits in her chair on the dais. He fills his cup again, knowing that no ale, no matter how strong, can chase away his want for her.

Arya and her boy are dancing; others join them. Sansa sits. He sees men ask her to dance, lords, servants, men with titles and without, and she smiles at all of them, but it's the smile she gave him in his room, not the one she gave him tonight. He wonders, and goes outside for a piss. He wants his head to be clear when he asks her. For the first time in his memory, he lifts a hand to his cheek, running his fingers gently over his scars; his face feels nothing, but one more chain around his heart shatters, and maybe she doesn't care about them. Maybe she finds him handsome. Doubtful, but possible.

When he goes back inside, everyone who isn't dancing is drunk off their arses, and she still sits.

He walks up to the dais and bows. "Your Grace."

Her eyes are so very, very green. "What did I tell you before, Sandor?"

He swallows. "My apologies, Sansa."

She smiles, and it's the first real smile he's seen from her in a long time. He'll take this to his grave.

She stands and walks around the table. Her gait is steady, confident, but when she looks at him, her eyes are uncertain. Fuck, but he wants to kiss her. "Will you dance, se--Sandor?"

His throat isn't working. He clears it and tries again. "You don't need to ask."

She takes his hands, places them on her waist, her eyes following her movements. "I will always ask." She looks back up at him, solemn. "Better to ask too much than too little."

As they move, he thinks about dancing, how he's never cared for it until now; about her husbands, a dwarf and a sadist, and the other men who taught her to be hard; about her hands on his shoulders, very proper and yet improper. Her hands, sliding, across, up, around the back of his head --

His eyes dart around. The drunks are passed out, the dancers are in their own worlds. No one is watching him.

"Sandor," she whispers. "You sent Arya back on a horse instead of taking it for yourself."

He shouldn't wonder how she knows. "You've no proof of that," he hisses, suddenly wanting to be rough with her, wanting to see how she reacts.

Her eyes darken. "She was barely conscious, but she knew it was you. Why?"

"She's a lady," he whispers, moving them closer to the edge of the room, out into a corridor. He only realizes what he's done when he has her practically against a wall.

"We thought you dead," she whispers, and are those tears in her eyes?

His hands slide around her waist, hesitant, but she doesn't pull away, so he gathers her into his arms, presses her against the wall. "Do I look dead to you, Sansa?"

She pushes him away slightly, her hands on his chest, before leaning up and pressing her mouth against his.

He can't breathe.

She pulls away quickly, her face flushed. "I'm sorry, I should have asked --"

"Sansa," he breathes. Lifts a hand to her cheek.

"Why did you come back, Sandor?"

He takes her face in both his hands. "This. You. I --" He can't find the words. "I don't swear oaths, but I would swear you all of them."

She looks down. "I don't want you to swear me oaths. Not unless I can swear them back."

It takes him a second to realize what she means. "You don't --"

Her eyes are fierce when she looks at him. "I do."

He looks back at her, wondering how to convey the depth of his feeling for her. Wondering why she seems to feel the same.

She softens under his gaze, and he lets go of wanting to know why, because she never shows that side of her to anyone else, now. He kisses her until they're both breathless, and then he kisses her more. He knows not to insult her by asking if she means it, so instead he basks in the affection she's giving him.

\----------------

When he drapes his cloak around her shoulders, he almost cries. He didn't think about any of it before, he didn't want to jinx it, but Sansa in his colors is one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen. She's smiling so bright it looks like she might cry too.

When their daughter is born, he does cry. After, he holds her, rocking her back and forth while her mother rests, singing little nonsense songs to her. He doesn't care who sees; he's not the Hound anymore. And when Sansa rises from the birthing bed and comes to stand with him, ducking under his arm and slipping hers around his waist, a weight he never noticed before lifts itself off his chest. He's home.


End file.
